


How Could I Not See This Coming

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Whumptober 2019 [16]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Detective Comics (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Blood and Injury, Brotherly Love, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Prompt: "Stay With Me", but it's super minor so yeah, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 11:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Just because he's not in uniform doesn't mean that Tim Drake is any less prone to danger than Red Robin is.





	How Could I Not See This Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Day 17: "Stay with me"
> 
> (Title's based off "The Way It Ends" from the Death Note soundtrack because I discovered it yesterday and haven't stopped listening to that song on repeat since.)

As it usually goes for superheroes, aligning schedules is a shitshow no matter how hard you try. Balancing day jobs with night jobs with everything else makes it difficult to find room for much else, let alone downtime.  
  
But occasionally, on days such as this, the stars align. Time is found. And, for once, they can just...be.   
  
Dick and Tim are walking along Gotham’s streets in the direction of their favorite Thai place. It’s a bright Saturday afternoon. The sun is out and the sky is blue; a rarity in this hellscape of a city, so they take advantage of it by strolling through town rather than taking a ride on the Alfred Express: fit for all your chauffeuring needs.   
  
Tim’s catching Dick up on his last escapade with the Titans. “I’m telling you, I have no idea how Cassie manages those guys. Hell, I don’t know how _ I _ managed them. There was pudding _ everywhere, _ Dick. _ Everywhere.” _ He shudders, and Dick laughs.   
  
He’s missed seeing Tim happy. The antidepressants must be doing something right, because there’s color in his cheeks for the first time in months. The kid’s been so stressed out lately: working solo as Red Robin, returning to Gotham from his worldwide Batman-search, ruffling feathers as the new CEO of Wayne Enterprises.   
  
But from what Dick can tell, he’s taking it all in stride rather than letting the weight batter him into a pulp. Just last week he broke off a huge deal with Black Mask that Hush had put into effect during Bruce’s absence. Tim’s making his own mark on the company—making changes for the better, and Dick couldn’t be more proud.   
  
He hasn’t seen this kind of sunshine shining through Tim’s face in years, and it’s good. They’re good.   
  
They pass a cupcake shop, and Dick gets distracted by the display in the window. Tim ends up pulling him by the elbow, laughing. “Come on, idiot, I’ve only got an hour for my lunch break.”   
  
“We can always have lunch here,” Dick says, but he relents and follows. “Carbo-load on cupcakes and frosting.”   
  
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”   
  
They’ve barely cleared the building when out of nowhere, a man in a long coat pushes past them, knocking hard into Tim’s elbow and making him spill his latte. He doesn’t apologize or even look back, which is a dick move even in Gotham.   
  
Tim mops the coffee off his sleeve without a word, but Dick steps forward. “Dude, hey—”   
  
Before Dick can even _ consider _ ways this confrontation could go badly, the man turns around and points a gun at Tim’s chest.   
  
Just like that.   
  
Dick feels like he’s been doused in ice water with how fast this situation just three-sixtied before his eyes. Tim’s face goes white as he stares down at the barrel holding his fate. The man’s face is shadowed by his hood, but the grimace framing his mouth is clear.   
  
It’s halfway between shock and panic when Dick remembers that Tim’s not wearing his uniform. They’re not Red Robin and Nightwing right now; they’re two civilian brothers out to lunch. Tim has no gadgets, no armor. That’s all Dick can think about—the fact that the only thing barring bullet from flesh is his paper-thin button-down. That’s it.   
  
Tim raises his hands. They don’t shake. Dick follows suit. “I don’t know what this is over,” Tim says steadily, “but I’m sure we can work it out.”   
  
The man’s hand is shaking. He’s an amateur. Good, because at least that means he has no experience with kill shots. Bad, because that also means he’s unpredictable. “Tim Drake-Wayne?”   
  
Tim swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes flicker to Dick beside him.   
  
“Answer me!”   
  
“Yes!” he says quickly. “Yes, I’m—I’m Tim Drake-Wayne.”   
  
The man pulls back the safety. “I was ordered to kill you.”   
  
Tim’s eyebrows twitch. “Okay…” He wets his lips. “By whom?”   
  
“Why do you care? Won’t matter to you once I’m done, anyway.”   
  
Tim’s eyes flick to Dick again. He doesn’t show any sign of nervousness, but Dick’s known him long enough to tell when he’s hiding how scared he is. It’s in the crease between his eyes; in the tremble of his lip.   
  
Dick tries to think of something to do, some way he can fix this, but from his spot beside Tim there’s no way to apprehend the guy without getting a bullet through his brain in the process. He’s powerless.   
  
Tim catches his gaze again and holds it. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay.” _ You’re reassuring _ me _ right now? _ Dick wants to say. Tim looks back at the man, eyes narrowing. “Whatever they’re paying you, I can double it.”   
  
“And get killed myself when my employer sees that your death isn’t in the headlines? Right.”   
  
His finger tightens over the trigger, and Tim cracks: his fingers twitch. “Please.” It’s not a beg. It’s a rationalization. “I don’t know who put you up to this or what I did to earn it, but you—”   
  
_ BLAM. _   
  
Dick’s mind blanks. Everything around him moves in a haze, sluggish like thick syrup. The gun. The trigger. Tim’s eyes widening as the gunshot cracks through the air, cutting off his next word.   
  
Blood spurts from a spot on Tim’s chest, like they’re in a movie and this is the part when everything goes slow-mo as the hero is defeated. Tim’s legs give out and he collapses onto the cement, and Dick wants to _ do something, anything, _ but he can’t find his limbs. Can’t do anything but watch, horror-stricken as the man turns on his heel and runs, and Dick knows he should chase him. Take him down. Put him in jail.   
  
But...Tim.   
  
Tim is hurt.   
  
And like a lightswitch, Dick comes back. He snaps into motion, forgetting about the shooter completely as he kneels beside Tim.   
  
Tim’s eyes are glazed as he stares up at the sky, his complexion already growing paler. “Ow,” he manages, like the reality of what happened is only just now catching up to him. “I—” He lifts his head and sees the blood soaking through his shirt. “Holy shit, I just got sh-shot. Fuck, I— Sorry.” He’s looking at Dick now, tremors raking over his skin. “I’m—I’m sorry.”   
  
What is he apologizing for? There’s no time to ask.   
  
Dick’s hands hover over the wound as he tries to tamp down the panic rising in his throat. He can’t afford to lose it now; not while his little brother is bleeding out right in front of him.   
  
A sparse crowd has gathered by now, watching the tragedy unfold. Dick looks up. “Someone call the paramedics!” he orders. Then he focuses back on the wound. The bullet entered just below Tim’s sternum, and blood has already pooled below him. Not good.   
  
Dick presses his palms against the wound, trying to keep Tim’s blood in his body until help arrives. Tim grunts, coughing. “I’m shot. I’m— Why did I get shot?” he asks, bordering on panic. “What did I do?”   
  
Dick doesn’t answer. Just pushes more of his weight onto the puncture and tries to stay calm. He can’t afford to lose it yet—not until Tim is safe. Tim’s teeth dig into his lip, bracing against the pain. “You’re going to be okay,” Dick finds himself saying. “You’re going to be fine.”   
  
Tim nods, but a whimper vibrates in his throat. “I don’t know what I—what I did. Tim Drake doesn’t—I didn’t _ do _ anything.”   
  
“I know, buddy.”   
  
Tim’s head falls back on the sidewalk. “Fuck, this...hurts.” The last word ends on a slur, which is totally not worrying at all.   
  
“Don’t move, okay? Just hold on a little longer.”   
  
Tim’s eyelids are drooping now, making a dense knot of worry coil in Dick’s stomach. “Mm-hm.”   
  
“Hey,” he snaps. “Timmy, stay with me.” He keeps his right hand pressed on the bullet wound while his left palms back Tim’s hair, exposing his fluttering eyes. _“Tim. _ Look at me.”   
  
Tim shivers, but he opens his eyes. “I don’t—” He coughs, and blood splatters his lips. The coil of worry tightens. “I don’t wanna die.”   
  
“You’re not going to,” Dick says, uncaring that he’s getting blood in Tim’s hair as he pets back his bangs, trying to provide an ounce of comfort. “Just stay with me, alright? Stay with me.”   
  
Tim nods. A single tear streaks down his face, and his eyes hold such desperation when he looks up at Dick that it’s physically painful. “‘Kay.”   
  
Dick swallows down his fear and forces a smile. “Good. Because the sooner you get better, the sooner we can figure out who ordered the hit and pound his face in.”   
  
Tim chuckles weakly, but it turns into a wheeze. His chest rattles, and he whines when it jostles the bullet. More blood burbles out of the wound, coating Dick’s already-stained fingers. He presses down harder, and Tim locks a cry behind his teeth.   
  
“Sorry,” Dick whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”   
  
“S’okay,” Tim murmurs, swallowing thickly as his eyes fall closed again. “I…I ’preciate you trying.”   
  
At once hysteria spirals through every channel in Dick’s brain. “Hey, don’t fall asleep. You hear me? Come on, Tim, the ambulance is almost here.” It’s true. He can hear sirens wailing in the distance. He only prays they get here fast enough.   
  
Tim doesn’t respond with more than another wheeze.   
  
_ “Tim. _ Open your eyes.” Nothing. Not even a cough. Coil snapping, Dick drags his hand down and presses his trembling fingers against Tim’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s weak. “Please stay with me, Tim. _ Please.” _   
  
No response. Tim looks dead already, and images race through Dick’s mind of having to break the news to Bruce, of having to attend yet another funeral. Another name crossed off the board. Another headstone in the Wayne family cemetery.   
  
“Please, please, please…” he whispers, throat thick as he squeezes his eyes shut. The sirens get closer, but Dick doesn’t let up on the pressure. “Stay with me, kid. Stay with me.”   


* * *

  
The hospital room is quiet. A nurse came in to check Tim’s vitals an hour ago, but other than that it’s just been Dick and Tim. He hasn’t woken up yet.   
  
It was a miracle the doctors managed to bring Tim back from the brink. There was a terrifying moment when his heart stopped in the ER, and Dick felt his own heart stop as well. It had taken two shocks for him to revive, but the tension in Dick’s body refuses to loosen even now.   
  
Tim needed several blood transfusions, and it was mere luck that kept the bullet from digging too hard into anything important.   
  
Everything that occurred after they took Tim in for surgery was a blur. Dick vaguely remembers scrubbing the blood off his hands, uncaring that his shirt looked like a murder scene. It very nearly was. Could still be. He called Bruce at one point, told him what happened. He bought a cup of coffee and didn’t drink it.   
  
Then the doctor came out to inform him that Tim was going to be just fine, and Dick let the relief wash over him. Let himself be led to Tim’s room, where the kid was sleeping off the sedation under layers of blankets and wires and tubes. Dick refused to leave his side after that, even when the police came to take his statement. One flash of his own badge had them off his back for the time being.   
  
And now he’s waiting again; waiting for Tim to wake up. Waiting for something to _ happen, _ to prove that everything is truly going to be okay.   
  
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when the door to the hospital room cracks open. Dick recognizes the footsteps and doesn’t bother turning around. “Hey.”   
  
“How is he?”   
  
“Stable. The doctors said he’ll be okay.” He hasn’t released Tim’s hand in over half an hour. Doesn’t know if he’s capable of it at this point.   
  
Bruce comes closer until he’s just behind Dick’s shoulder. “Did you get a look at the person who did it?”   
  
“He was wearing a hood, and he ran off right after he did it. I could have caught him easily, but Tim...he was bleeding, and I—I couldn’t—”   
  
A heavy hand rests on Dick’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s okay,” Bruce says. “You did what you could and you kept him alive. We’ll find the shooter, _ and _ the person he was working for.”   
  
The words are a blanket, warm and reassuring, but Dick’s conscience refuses to relax. “He wasn’t even in _ costume,” _he says, voice croaky. “He was just...He’s just a kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
